


Write a story...It Would be a Tragedy

by Arahs13



Series: Remember me with a smile, or don't remember me at all. [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, F/M, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, If you want - Freeform, Implied Fenris/Hawke, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Varric Tethras, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, mentioned death, slight varric/hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:32:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arahs13/pseuds/Arahs13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never hated stories like he did now. Never felt loathing hatred, disgust and anger bubbling in his stomach and caught in his throat as he did now looking upon his stories , hearing his words twisting a story together echoing around him, suffocating him.</p><p>He had never felt his hear splinter where barely tamed pride should have been looking upon the cover of a book.</p><p>His book.</p><p>‘The tale of the champion.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write a story...It Would be a Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Key:  
> Varrics letter bold and italic  
> hakwes past words italic
> 
> first part not needed to be read for this but feel free to do so.
> 
> KoolKat_SuperStar_DareDevil commented on my other work that it would be bad for varric because he had to tell fenris that hawke died because he asked them to come. so i tried to write something in varrics pov ish but its really just him angst-ing about hawke.
> 
> anyway enjoy.  
> feel free to comment and kudo and point out any mistakes made.
> 
> enjoy.

Crumpled letters where scattered across the room, tossed from the table marred with meaningless words, spilled ink and tears.

The brave champion they would proclaim.

The champion who forged an short alliance with the inquisitor to fight their common foe.

The champion who sacrificed their own live to save the Herald’s.

The champion, a hero! One they would sing and tell stories about until they too were forgotten.

The champion.

The Hawke.

 

He had never hated stories like he did now. Never felt loathing hatred, disgust and anger bubbling in his stomach and caught in his throat as he did now looking upon his stories , hearing his words twisting a story together echoing around him, suffocating him.

He had never felt his hear splinter where barely tamed pride should have been looking upon the cover of a book.

His book.

‘The tale of the champion.’

Champion.

They had been so much more than that. Hawke was so much more that a title throw around party hauls or whispered in the dark corners where sound should not breach.

Hawke had been a child of a loving parents who had loved and adored them. Parents who had both been cruelly taken away from them slowly, and painfully before they could even utter their last words or draw their last breaths.

A sibling to Twins who they guarded like precious treasure to the point that their shadow embraced one and choked the other.

 A sibling to a sister who had adored them so, who shielded their home dying with a breath and no goodbye.

To a brother who had loved and hated them, and had died by their own hand, smiling with splintered lips and clouded eyes as dagger drove through him.

Hawke was a friend who’s Fire couldn’t be replaced by another, and a smile that was hard to forget.

They were a lover to a Elf they had loved, to an Elf who had walked away and back again, who had hurt them as much as he had hurt.

A lover to an Elf who took a fracturing heart and ripped it from them trailing blood as he had walked away leaving his own broken one behind.

A lover.

A elf.

He.

Him.

Broody.

**Fenris**

The name wrote across crumpled letters scattered across the room, marred with meaningless words, spilled ink and tears.

**_It’s about Hawke_ **

What was a writer who could not write? A story teller who could not utter a word?

That is what He had become.

A storyteller who could not bear to lift his pen to paper, to flow his ink across the surface penning the finale of a story stopped short.

Because this was not the end of the champions tale.

It wasn’t the end of Hawke’s story.

It couldn’t be.

**_Something happened,_ **

It shouldn’t have been.

Only hours before had the Hake smiled and laughed with him in a dim room, a drink in hand and a wisdom and tiredness in their eye’s that was beyond their years, but had been present for the years he had bared witness to those expressive orbs of colour.

Only hours before had there been a flow of words between them as they mapped out stories told for many years, and new stories they had gathered.

They had laughed with him, laughter lines marring their faces far more clearly now than before as the spoke of the good times, their hardships and their friendship that should have spanned decades leaving all who saw it awed at a bond formed they could never hope to experience.

Hawke had been one hell of a friend, perhaps one of the few he trusted more than himself.

And he did. Completely.

He had told them more than he had ever told another soul, more than any lover had known, more than what his family had known.

He had called them friend.

But the Hawke was more than that, always had been.

They’re his family the only one they had left.

**_Something terrible_ **

They were his family.

 

As a story teller he remembers everything. Every fine detail. Every drunken night. Every drunken word they spoke. Ever hushed words whispered between them, only for him to hear, only for him to know.

**_Forgive me Fenris._ **

He remembers when the broody bastard had left. He remembers Hawke walking towards him, standing tall hands clenched and unshed tears lighting their eyes.

He remembers hugging them, holding them as they clutched at him with a grip that could break him as they broke in front of him, finally letting themselves go, a brief moment of weakness in the company of one they knew they could trust.

He never told another soul of how he had held them close that night as they drenched his shoulder a whispered names long since buried.

Their tears had been only for him to see, for him to wipe from his friends eyes and for him to drink their sorrows away with together: as companions, shield-brothers. Family.

They had smiled the next time he was with them, the elf there as well just ahead, far enough away to not hear whispered words from Hawke’s mouth.

_Forgive me_

Whether the words where towards him or the elf he never knew, would never know.

But the smile they had flashed at him that had been for them only, to share between them and no other.

He remembers.

He wished now that he never did.

Once he had told them he was a story teller, who spun words and embellished truths that stayed with his audiences and left them hanging on his every word.

He told them that words were a weapon he wielded as well as his crossbow.

Hawke had smiled a small smile that told little and everything with a drink in hand when they had looked him in the eyes and whispered a challenge between them.

_If you were to write a story_

He had many a time

_With me as the lead role_

They had been

_It would certainly be …_

 He had smirked and said it wouldn’t

_A tragedy_

It was.

Spilled ink and tears across crumpled paper, scattered and marred with meaningless words.

As a story teller he got to choose the endings. When a story had well and truly ended.

The champion’s tale had not ended. It was just reaching its peak. There was so much more that had yet to be said, to be done and experienced. So much life that yet to be lived.

As a story teller he got a say in the story.

But he had no say here.

There was no story teller here.

The story had finished, but it had not ended.

Not until he spilled ink on a page and filled it with meaningless words.

Fenris deserves to know.

**_Hawke’s gone Fenris._ **

How he wished Hawke had never taught the elf to read. There was a cruel irony in the way that the elf would use the gift given to him from his lover to read of their absence.

Of their death.

Of his failure.

Hawke never like the ending of stories anyway.

But He wished that for just one last time, he could skip out the ending

**_Hawke’s Dead._ **

They had always smiled when he did.

 

 

\-------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
